


Preponderance of Evidence

by Lyrstzha



Category: The Dead Zone
Genre: Amnesia, Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-09
Updated: 2006-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/pseuds/Lyrstzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story started out as me wondering what would happen if I could get my slash goggles onto the characters for awhile. Then crickets and donuts and religious fanatics got involved somehow, and amnesia seemed to be the sensible thing to do after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preponderance of Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Dead Zone Photo Challenge ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/community/deadzonefic/7662.html). The photos I was assinged as prompts can be found [here](http://versaphile.com/ljshare/dzc/lyrstzha-breakin.jpg), and [here](http://versaphile.com/ljshare/dzc/lyrstzha-greenbug.jpg).

One of the best things about being psychic is usually being prepared in advance for the times when Walt knocks on his door in the wee small hours of the morning—which, to be fair, Walt really tries not to do, but crime apparently waits for no man, sleep-deprived psychic or not.

By the time Walt arrives, Johnny's awake, freshly showered and shaved, and dressed. He's toweling his hair dry with one hand and reaching for the front doorknob with the other when Walt's car pulls into the drive.

A few years ago, Walt might have knocked on the door with a slight flash of guilty enjoyment for bothering John at this hour, but now Walt's face holds genuine apology as he arrives on the doorstep a few minutes after 2 a.m. He doesn't look at all surprised to find Johnny holding the door open when he gets there.

"Hey, John. Sorry to get you up this early, but at least I come bearing coffee and donuts." He waves a paper bag and a caddy of cups, and moves forward to brush past Johnny and into the house with absolute certainty of his welcome.

Walt has never _said_ that he's noticed sugar and caffeine help dispel the shaky feeling Johnny usually suffers after his visions; one morning a couple of years ago, after a long night searching for a missing child through vision after vision, Walt handed Johnny a cup of coffee, and watched with those dark, intent eyes that miss a lot less than they pretend to as the tremors in Johnny's hands eased and some of the color came back into his face. Now it's one of those things Walt simply takes care of without discussion.

Johnny nods a greeting at Walt and shuts the door behind him, already reaching for the bag of donuts. Because in Johnny's opinion, there's not much that isn't made at least a little better by the addition of something chocolate glazed.

Walt, ever the gentleman, surrenders the bag easily and waits for Johnny to tear into his first bite before saying, "So, you know that new age shop on Fifth?" He pauses for Johnny's nod and donut-muffled grunt of annoyance-tinged agreement. "Yeah, the one with that whole wall dedicated to Johnny Smith paraphernalia."

Johnny manages a stifled growl and narrows his eyes at Walt, who flashes a brief, unrepentant grin back.

"The thing is," Walt continues, "they had a break-in tonight. Nothing was taken, but a note was left. It warns the owners that if they don't—and I quote—stop worshiping the false prophet, they'll all be destroyed by the avenging hand of god in a rain of fire. I don't like the sound of that too much." Walt frowns. "And whoever our guy is, he's pretty smooth. Forensics didn't pick up any leads at the scene or off of the note."

Johnny washes his last bite down with a quick gulp of coffee, and sets the cup down on a side table. He holds out his hand expectantly to Walt, who is already fishing an evidence bag out of his pocket.

"Anything you can get," Walt says unnecessarily as he hands over the bagged note.

Johnny peels back a corner of the bag, and feels the fine tremors start in his fingers as his hand hovers over the paper. He closes his grasp and

_Flash. He stands behind a man in a blue flannel shirt, who sits silently tinkering at a work table lit by a single desk lamp. The rest of the room is shadowed, but the small, high windows strongly suggest a basement. Johnny moves closer to peer over the man's shoulder. A tangle of wires snarls between the man's fingers like yarn raveling across the hands of a knitter. Several of the wires attach to something that looks suspiciously like a timer._

"John? Are you hearing me? John, I need you to tell me what's going on in there." Walt's voice is steady and solid-sounding, and it centers Johnny.

"He's not kidding about the rain of fire. He's making some kind of bomb." _Johnny shifts his gaze to the man's face, but the features are obscured by a large pair of magnifying goggles._ "He's medium build, dark haired...but his face is hidden, Walt." Johnny can hear the note of frustration is his own voice.

Apparently, so can Walt, because he answers, "Okay, don't worry about it; that's fine. Can you see anything that tells you where he is?"

_Johnny slowly turns, looking for something useful in the room. There's some tools hanging on the walls, and a few gutted appliances lying huddled in the corner, spilling their mechanized entrails across the floor. He goes to the door on the far wall, but it remains stubbornly shut against him. After a moment of struggling, he gives it up. Johnny turns instead to strain to see out of the high windows, but the darkness outside is nearly impenetrable. He can just make out the sliver of the crescent moon, and the twisting, black shapes of a few branches outlined against it._

"He's in a basement. There's not a lot to see here, and it's really dark outside the windows." Johnny pauses to listen. "Come to think of it, it's so dark I think we're outside town somewhere. And I can't hear anything but insects and night birds—no traffic at all."

"That's good, John." And Walt's reassuring tone somehow actually makes it seem like it _is_, even though Johnny thinks he hasn't offered much to go on. "Anything else?"

"I don't think—hey, wait a minute." _Johnny tilts his head to the side, closing his eyes in concentration._ "Walt, I need you to time out thirteen seconds for me."

"What? What's going on, John?" Walt sounds mystified, but Johnny is sure even without seeing him that he's already fiddling with his watch.

"I'll let you know if it pans out. Just tell me when you're starting."

"Okay." Walt sighs the resigned sigh he saves especially for Johnny-related strangeness. "Annnd...go."

_Johnny stands absolutely motionless beneath one of the windows, his eyes still closed. He ticks off his fingers slowly in time with the chorus of insect song outside, counting through his left hand twice and starting over again a third time._

"Time, John."

Johnny opens his eyes and his right hand, snapping back into his foyer as he releases the note with a familiar sense of vertigo. "Okay, twelve. How cold is it outside, do you know?"

Walt blinks at him. "Uh...I'm pretty sure the big thermometer outside the bank was flashing fifty-three degrees when I drove past. Why?"

Johnny jabs a finger triumphantly into the air. "Snowy tree crickets!"

"_What?_" Walt stares.

"Lots and lots of them, from the sound of it." Walt's still staring, so Johnny hurries to add, "I could hear them through the window. You can always tell if they're snowy tree crickets, because if you count how many chirps you hear in 13 seconds and add 40, it'll tell you the temperature. Give or take a couple of degrees."

"Okay," Walt says slowly, like he's trying to be reasonable. "So they're snowy tree crickets. And?"

"And it's spring, so they're just hatching." Johnny waves his hands around in earnest excitement, exactly the way he used to do when he was teaching. "The adult crickets lay their eggs primarily in the bark and stems of fruit trees. Now, I heard a lot of crickets, so wherever that basement is, it's probably near---"

"—a lot of fruit trees," Walt finishes, comprehension dawning on his face. He snaps his fingers. "There's a big apple orchard about fifteen miles west of here, behind the Allen place. Old man Allen's been renting out the house, but it's empty this season, as far as I know. Worth a look."

Walt pauses, cocks his head a little, and regards John with an impish glint in his eye. "You know, John, sometimes I can tell you were weird way before all the psychic stuff." But he starts grinning even as he says it, and his warm hand comes up to squeeze Johnny's shoulder.

"Hey!" Johnny tries for indignant, but the effect is spoiled by the answering grin that tugs at his lips. "They're crickets that can tell you the temperature! How cool is that?"

"Arctic, John." Walt's shaking his head bemusedly, and his hand slides down to John's back to guide him toward the door. "Come be cool in the car, okay? I'm gonna need you out at the Allen place."

"Geek is the new chic," John mutters, letting Walt steer him.

"_Car_, John."

*********

"Okay, Johnny. Is this the place?" Walt pulls the car up slowly and as quietly as possible from a winding back road and into the entrance of a gravel drive. He flicks the headlights off before they can play across the black bulk of a house which crouches ahead, limned by wan moonlight. A large, sturdy-looking shed stands to the right of the house, and huge, gnarled old oaks line either side of the drive.

Johnny listens intently for a moment. "I'm not sure yet, but do you hear that?"

Walt listens too, his brow furrowing with concentration before his face abruptly clears. "Hey, are those your crickets?"

"I think so. Here let me check the note again, see if there's anything different." John reaches out a hand to take the evidence bag from Walt and get his fingers inside. And there's a bright

_Flash. Johnny stands in a darkened kitchen, behind a man who is looking out of the window over the sink. Johnny moves to peer over his shoulder, and he can just make out Walt's car at the end of the drive._

"Walt, we've got him. He's looking right back at us from that window on the left. It's kind of creepy." Johnny can hear Walt calling for backup on his radio. _The man isn't wearing his goggles anymore. Johnny leans around him slightly to get a good look at his face. It's a craggy, lived-in sort of face, with an aggressive chin and no laugh lines._

"You're a little early, Mr. Smith," he says very quietly, sending a chill down Johnny's spine. "Earlier than I'd like, but I'm ready." He reaches into a drawer and pulls out something which glints with a faint metallic sheen in what little light there is. He lays it on the counter with a muted clatter, and Johnny finds himself staring at a paring knife.

"Martyrs," the man says while calmly beginning to unbutton his shirt cuffs, "are assured a place in heaven at God's right hand."

"If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off," Johnny counters in a soft murmur, even though the man, of course, can't hear him.

But Walt can. "Johnny? John, give me the note; that's enough." Walt's hand closes around Johnny's and starts pulling gently but insistently.

"Wait...wait, he's talking to me. And he's doing something with a knife...I think---" Johnny holds tighter against Walt's coaxing fingers.

_The man rolls his cuffs back and picks up the knife. Without the slightest hesitation, he sets the blade against his left wrist and draws the point up towards his elbow. The wet whisper of flesh parting turns Johnny's stomach, and he jerks his hand back violently._

Johnny finds himself blinking rapidly at Walt's concerned face. "He's slitting his wrists in there! Something about martyrdom."

Walt is already jumping out the door while Johnny's still on his second sentence. "Wait here!" he calls back over his shoulder as Johnny fumbles himself out of the car. "I mean it, John!"

Johnny grudgingly pulls up short, watching Walt run to the front door and bang loudly on it. A glimmer of something white flutters down to the ground by Johnny's feet, catching his eye irresistibly. Johnny leans down, recognizing the note just before he closes his hand on it, and

_Flash. The man is slumped on the floor in the kitchen, surrounded by a pool that looks like tar in the dim room. He curses as his fingers—they must be more than half useless now, Johnny thinks—fumble with something small and square in his hand. Johnny can hear a crash that sounds like a door splintering, followed by a faint electronic beep from the device in the man's hand. Walt barrels into the kitchen and drops to his knees, trying to staunch the bleeding with one bare hand as the other grabs for the dish towel that hangs over the back of a bar stool._

_"You aren't him," the man says after a moment. His voice is weak and slurred, but still fraught with obvious disappointment. "I wanted him."_

_Before Walt can reply, there's a deafening roar, and the world explodes in blinding flame that washes through Johnny. For one horrible moment, he thinks he's somehow having a vision of the apocalypse again. Then the brightness fades enough that he can make out what's left of the shattered, burning shell of the house around him, and Walt is nowhere to be seen. Johnny hastily releases the note and_

He is running even before the real world clicks back into place around him. Johnny lurches slightly as the scenery blinks into focus, but he doesn't stop. The front door yawns brokenly, like a snaggle-toothed mouth, and he knows with an awful wrench in his gut that Walt must be inside already. Hollering for Walt to get out of the house at the top of his lungs, Johnny pelts up the drive as fast as he can.

Another of the good things about being psychic is that when he yells in that particular tense, urgent tone, Walt listens first and asks questions later. Johnny's almost to the door when Walt stumbles through it, dragging the bleeding man behind him. Johnny reaches them, and grabs at the man's belt to help pull. They stagger off of the porch steps just as the night explodes with a terrible, overwhelming thunder. The last thing Johnny knows is the force which slams against them like a tidal wave and hurls all three of them into one of the massive oaks beside the drive.

_*********_

He opens his eyes to the subdued brightness of a tasteful Oriental rug beneath his face. Lifting his head reveals a long, wood-paneled hallway stretching off before and behind him, with sturdy-looking oak doors interspersed along both sides. Soft light comes from wall-sconces beside each door. What really catches his eye, though, is another man lying on the floor a few feet away. The stranger is just stirring and lifting his head to look back with equal interest.

The other man squints at him in a measuring, wary sort of way. "What's going on? Who are you?"

The first man blinks thoughtfully, turning both questions over in his mind like puzzle boxes. "Huh. I'm not sure," he says finally. "I'll have to let you know when I figure it out. Who are _you_?"

The stranger opens his mouth as if to reply, then jerks to a halt. He stares for a moment, then snaps his jaw shut. "I don't think I know either," he finally admits.

They regard each other with matching frowns for a moment, and push themselves up into sitting positions facing each other from several feet apart. They both seem to be dressed in fairly nondescript jeans and sweaters, which give the impression of being very much alike without actually being identical.

Finally, the stranger offers, "At least we remember how to speak English. And I remember some other stuff." Off of the first man's raised eyebrow, the stranger elaborates, "I before e, except after c. The state tree of Maine is the Eastern white pine. And...you have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost. During any questioning, you may decide at any time to exercise these rights, not answer any questions, or make any statements." The stranger looks a bit surprised after the last bit comes tumbling out of his mouth in what seems like a well-practiced rush.

The first man lifts an eyebrow. "Hmm. _That's_ interesting. And kind of familiar, but I don't think I could have said that whole last bit myself." He tilts his head thoughtfully, his eyes going unfocused as he sifts through his brain. "Um. All mammals have seven vertebrae in their necks, even giraffes. The largest rodent in the world is the capybara. Also, there's no actual cheese in Velveeta."

"Hey!" The stranger points a finger at him. "I knew that one, too!" A quick grin flashes across his face like a shooting star and is gone. "Not that it helps much. We seem to know plenty of fun facts, but nothing that's useful right now." He glances speculatively at their surroundings. "Look, this is seriously weird, but we don't seem to be getting anywhere just sitting here. I think we should try some of these doors, see if we can find someone who knows what's happening and where we are. _Who_ we are, even."

And that sounds pretty reasonable, all things considered, so the first man nods. "Yeah, okay."

They both climb to their feet, and the stranger tentatively tries the door on his right. It swings open easily, and flourescent lighting shines through it. The stranger stops dead in the doorway, and the first man cranes to look over his shoulder.

"Okay," the stranger says in a voice that sounds ostentatiously calm. "Remember when I said this is seriously weird? I didn't know from weird then."

They both stare at the inside of what seems to be a convenience store, complete with shelves full of junk food, a colorful array of magazines, and a counter with a cash register next to a carousel of wilted hotdogs. One wall is almost entirely glass, but the darkness outside it is a completely fathomless black. Bright yellow police tape webs over the glass door, and uniformed cops are milling beside the counter.

"Hey." The stranger steps through the door and tries to get their attention, but they don't so much as look up. "Hey! What's wrong with you guys?" He strides over and reaches out to grab the shoulder of the nearest cop, but his hand passes through it completely, leaving him stumbling off-balance.

That brings the first man inside. "What the hell?" He passes his hand through the nearest shelf. "This is _not_ happening."

"Absolutely. Not happening at all. And why can't it not be happening to somebody else, anyway?" The stranger presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then abruptly turns around to fix the first man with a suddenly intent gaze. "Let me just see if...," and he reaches out a hand. It curls around the first man's upper arm easily, feeling totally hand-like. The first man closes his opposite hand over it, and it still feels perfectly normal.

They both look down at their joined hands for a moment, then the first man has a sudden thought. He looks up and opens his mouth, but he finds whatever he meant to say completely derailed when one of the cops he can see over the stranger's shoulder turns around. His eyes go wide, and he points urgently. "Look! Holy shit, that's _you_."

The stranger turns and looks, frowning. "The one on the left in the back?"

"Yes! I'm telling you, he looks just like you."

"Huh. Maybe..." But he trails off there, and just goes over to look more closely at his double, who seems to be wearing a sheriff's uniform. "Well," he says after a moment's inspection, "the good news is, I'm not half bad looking. The bad news is, this just keeps getting unbelievably creepier."

"Maybe we're dead, and this is our lives passing before our eyes. Or your life, anyway."

"Don't feel too left out; you're here, too. Come and look behind the counter." The stranger points downwards.

There's a blond man down on one knee behind the counter, pressing a hand against the concealed panic button underneath with a fixed, unseeing look in his eyes. All the milling cops seem to be watching him expectantly. After a minute, his eyes loose their unfocused stare, and he turns to look at the stranger's double.

"I got it, Walt. It was two guys, early twenties, looked like bikers. They came in the back—I didn't see how—and shot out the camera, then raided the register and took the clerk with them. He was still alive when they left," the blond man says in a tense rush.

The stranger's double offers a hand to help the blond man up, and claps him on the back. "Good work, John. I'd like you to go down to the station with Roscoe and see if you can identify either of their faces from our files."

The scene halts there suddenly, in an unexpected freeze frame. They both stare in surprise, then exchange a look. By tacit agreement they head for the door. They shut it behind themselves, and lean against the wall on either side of it.

"Okay. Let's review. Wherever we are, there's bizarre intangible things going on behind at least one of these doors. Leaving aside the whole idea of twins or holograms or whatever, it looks like my name might be John. And if that was some kind of recording or memory or something, we've maybe met before." Johnny shoots a look sideways at the stranger, who nods gamely.

"All right. For the sake of argument, anyway. So you're John."

"And you're a sheriff called Walt, apparently."

"Walt." Walt tests out the name on his tongue, looking thoughtful. "It feels kind of right." He shrugs. "It doesn't feel wrong, anyway."

"You look like a Walt, actually," Johnny offers, the bare edge of a snicker showing in his voice.

Walt looks over at him and demands, "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Johnny snorts and throws up his hands. "Oh, nothing. Just that you've got this Midwestern farmboy, I-really-belong-in-the-fifties kind of thing going on and that seems very Walt-esque to me."

Walt's eyebrows shoot up. "Me? Your name is John, Mr. Generic. It doesn't get blander than that. I mean, what, is your last name Doe? Smith, maybe? Glass houses, _John_." He gets a slightly more calculating look then, and adds, "Anyway, what were you doing there? You sure as hell didn't seem to be a cop. Or forensics. But you were putting your hands on a crime scene, and I let you. What the hell's up with that?"

Johnny shifts a little uncomfortably. "Um. I think maybe I was," he gestures vaguely. "A psychic," he finally says with a wince. Sure enough, when he glances over, Walt is looking back at him with an expression on his face that suggests that he thinks Johnny's gone completely around the bend. "You were there too; you saw how other-me just started narrating what had happened. And other-you seemed to be fine with it," he adds in a decidedly defensive tone.

"Are you kidding me? That's completely nuts! There's no way any version of me would buy into that."

*********

They stand awkwardly just inside another doorway, which seems to open out of thin air behind them into the back of a parked car. Their legs ghost through the floorboards of the car, and they're crouched down to keep their heads from passing through the roof. They stare at Walt's double offering up a bloody fist to Johnny's.

"I was just looking for something for something of Elliman's for you to touch," other-Walt says.

"And you settled for his blood." Other-Johnny eyes the proffered hand dubiously.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," other-Walt answers reasonably. "Now are you gonna continue criticizing my investigative methods, or are you gonna touch my hand?"

The scene freezes into stillness abruptly.

"Okay," Walt allows grudgingly, after a moment of consideration. "Apparently I _do_ buy into that. If I hit some guy just to get his blood for you, I must believe it. What the hell was I thinking, anyway?" He looks over at Johnny, who shrugs.

The corner of Walt's mouth twitches, and he indicates their doubles with a wave of his hand. "So you're a psychic, and I'm a sheriff," he says, with a shadow of mirth lurking in his voice.

Johnny nods seriously and lifts a finger as if he wants to make a vital point. "And together we fight crime."

They're still chuckling as they go back through the door.

*********

They pass through the next door into a sunny hospital room, and other-Johnny is lying on the bed with his arms wrapped tightly around a blond boy who stands at his bedside.

"You're alive!" Other-Johnny exclaims fervently to the boy, his face pale but full of ferocious joy.

Other-Walt comes rushing in, along with a few unfamiliar people. A dark-haired woman hangs back with a hesitant air of uncertainty, but she smiles and says, "Look who's awake."

Other-Walt apparently has no uncertainty at all, because he rushes straight to other-Johnny's bedside and stoops to seize him in a crushing hug. "Welcome back, you damn fool," he says in a slightly choked voice.

The scene grinds to halt just there, leaving them staring at their other selves embracing.

"So," Johnny manages eventually. "We must be kinda close." He casts a sidelong look at Walt.

Walt cocks his head to the side thoughtfully, and circles around the hospital bed to peer at his other-self's face. After a searching moment of close examination, he looks back up at Johnny with an unreadable but intent gaze. "I'd say that's what it looks like." His eyes stay fixed on Johnny until Johnny finds himself fidgeting and has the awful suspicion that he's actually blushing. Walt mercifully turns his regard to the boy by the bed and each of the adults in the room in turn. "But who are all these people, anyway? Those two are obviously doctors, but the woman and the kid—family, I guess."

Johnny looks at the dark-haired woman frozen beside him. "Anyway, I don't think she's my wife." Johnny's mouth twists in a self-deprecating grin, and his tone turns rueful. "At least, I'd like to _think_ that she'd be happier to see me not-dead if she was married to me."

"The kid looks kind of like you, though," Walt adds thoughtfully.

*********

They find themselves in a comfortable if slightly ostentatious living room. Their other selves are lounging on either end of a couch, watching a hockey game on a giant screen television with the sound turned down to a whisper. When they go over for a closer look, they can see the blond boy from the last room stretched out on the sofa with his head in other-Walt's lap, and his feet in other-Johnny's. He snores faintly with a whistling sound.

Other-Walt looks down at the boy and smiles a soft, content sort of smile, while the colored light from the screen flickers over his face. "We got one hell of a son here, John," he says very quietly.

Other-John's head turns to look at other-Walt, and an identical smile blooms on his face. "Hey, we're his dads. What else would you expect?"

The scene stills. A slightly uncomfortable silence falls as they both stay so motionless that they might be part of the frozen tableau themselves.

Eventually, Johnny clears his throat with a small, pained sound and ventures, "Dad and step-dad, you think?" He watches Walt out of the corner of his eye.

"Maybe," Walt says slowly. "Or..." He trails off awkwardly, shifting restlessly.

"Or _what?_" Johnny demands in a strained voice.

Walt swallows visibly, and turns resolutely to look at Johnny, holding his hands out as if urging reason and restraint. "I'm just saying. Maybe you and me—maybe we're," he motions back and forth between them. "And raising a kid," he finishes.

Johnny's eyebrows feel like they're trying to climb into his hair. "No way. Wouldn't I—we—feel, you know, kind of gay?" He starts, and looks more closely at Walt suddenly. "Are you saying _you_ feel—"

Walt cuts him off. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just trying to cover all the possibilities. And you have to admit that this looks a bit...intimate."

Johnny blinks and looks back at the scene without meaning to. "Well," he hedges, "it does sort of give that impression. But if we really were, you know, married and raising a kid, shouldn't we feel," he tries the same back and forth motions with his hand that Walt used, "well, something?"

Johnny can see Walt shrug out of the corner of his eye. "What, like I'm supposed to know how this works? We're in the mother of all funhouses. How am I supposed to know the rules? It's not like I've had amnesia before."

Johnny points a finger in his direction. "Maybe you have. How would you know?"

Walt considers that for a moment. "Well, okay, yeah. Maybe. But still."

"And anyway, this," Johnny indicates the whole scene with an expansive sweep of his arms. "This is all circumstantial evidence. Shouldn't you be the one saying that, Mr. Sheriff?"

Walt rolls his eyes at Johnny. "God, there is _no_ way I'm raising a son with someone as difficult as you."

"Told you so," Johnny declares triumphantly, and they head back through the door without another word.

*********

Judging from the decor, the next scene appears to be in the same house, but this time a young Hispanic woman is trying to eavesdrop through a closed French door. Johnny and Walt can hear sounds of heated voices on the other side, and they stand behind the young woman curiously. After a moment, other-Johnny opens the French door and comes sweeping through, looking more than a bit stressed. Briefly, they can both see around him to other-Walt in the room beyond, glaring at other-Johnny's back and bouncing an infant against his chest.

"You and your boyfriend have a kid?" the young woman demands, something a little combative in her tone.

The scene stops as other-Johnny darts an uncomfortable glance sideways at the woman.

Walt swivels his head to look at Johnny levelly. "That kind of clinches it, I think. But do we have a second kid, or is that our son when he was a baby? I couldn't really tell from here."

Johnny sputters and gesticulates wildly at the woman. "We don't know who she is! She might not be a credible witness. And that's something else you should be saying first."

Walt lifts an eyebrow at Johnny. "You know, this disbelief thing is kind of unflattering now that I think about it. What was I thinking when I married you?"

Johnny's mouth works for a minute, but nothing much comes out. Walt shrugs and turns to go back towards the door, reaching out a fingertip to shut Johnny's jaw as he passes. The warm brush of his skin is far more startling than Johnny is prepared for.

*********

They pull up sharply as the next door opens. The room beyond is obviously a simple bedroom, and one of the figures writhing and moaning on the bed, even from profile, is obviously Walt. The man beneath him, even with his head buried in the sheets, is just as obviously far too dark and burly to be Johnny.

They both stare wordlessly for a long moment, and Johnny can feel his blood thundering to a rushing crescendo in his ears.

He stabs a finger at the bed accusingly. "That. Is. Not. Me!" He turns his back on the scene and glares at Walt furiously.

"Hey, I thought you didn't believe we had a thing." Walt crosses his arms defensively and turns his back on the scene, too.

"That was before I found out you were cheating on me!"

Walt holds his hands up in a manner which Johnny figures he probably means to be soothing. "We don't know that it's what it looks like. I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for," he waves a hand over his shoulder helplessly, "that. I don't think I'm the kind of guy who cheats on his husband."

Johnny crosses his arms and keeps glaring. "You don't think? Because it looks like an open and shut case from here, Sheriff."

Walt risks a look back over his shoulder. "Let's be reasonable here." He visibly steels himself and steps closer to the writhing bodies. He circles around to get a better look at his partner. "Ha! C'mere and look at this!"

"Are you _kidding_?" But Johnny comes anyway.

Walt points at his other-face. "See? How old do you think I look there?"

Johnny narrows his eyes at the double's face, and says grudgingly, "Maybe early twenties."

Walt points at his own face with an expression of triumph. "And how old do I look now?"

Johnny's scowl eases a bit, and he says, "Probably late thirties."

"See?" Walt claps a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "I'm sure this was way before we got together. I told you, I am _not_ cheating on you."

Johnny finally relents, and nods with a bit of a sheepish smile. "Okay, you're right. I'm sorry." He turns his back on the scene again, which has so far obstinately refused to freeze. "But do you think we could maybe not watch you nailing your skanky ex anymore?"

"Absolutely," Walt nods and drops a hand to Johnny's back to guide him out of the room quickly, the chorus of moans still rising behind them as Walt shuts the door firmly.

Once out in the hall, Johnny finds himself acutely conscious of Walt standing close beside him. He clears his suddenly-dry throat and looks over to find Walt gazing back at him intently. "Um," Johnny manages. "Okay, I might be convinced. You know, that we actually have a thing."

Walt nods seriously. "It really seems like it." A frown flits across his face. "Assuming that all these things we've seen are true, and who the hell even knows about that?"

Johnny ponders this with a frown of his own, and he slowly paces the few steps across the width of the hall and back to face Walt. "It's a good point. We still don't really know what's going on or what this place is." He licks his lips a little nervously and his hands flutter jerkily at his sides as his eyes suddenly find the wall interesting. "But if it's true, if we really are," his voice falters a bit, but he soldiers on, "in love, then I think we ought to be able to feel it if we just tried hard enough. I don't want to think that that's the kind of thing I _could_ forget." His eyes slip back to Walt's with an almost shy but heartfelt look.

Walt nods slowly, watching the color rise in Johnny's face with obvious avid fascination. "I'd like to think I couldn't, either. What exactly does 'if we tried hard enough' mean, though?"

"I was thinking that maybe we should conduct a small...experiment. Just to be sure." Johnny drifts closer to Walt without exactly meaning to.

"Experiment?" Walt husks softly, his hands already coming up to close on Johnny's shoulders.

Johnny is busy staring at Walt's lips, but he murmurs, "Yes, if we just..." But it really seems simpler to show him, so Johnny weaves his hand firmly into dark hair and pulls Walt's unresisting mouth against his own. Their lips slide easily together, all awkwardness forgotten. Suddenly Walt's tongue is stroking at Johnny's lower lip with stupefying enthusiasm, and sliding inside to explore deeper in a way that makes Johnny's sense of gravity ripple. Johnny opens for him eagerly, and finds himself wrapping his other arm around Walt's waist to pull their bodies into full contact. Johnny swallows Walt's startled moan with a fierce sense of satisfaction as their hips come together. He can feel himself—and better yet, Walt—hardening with shocking speed. He tears his mouth away finally to pant hard into Walt's neck.

No matter what he'd said before, Johnny was more or less expecting to feel a tingle of familiarity, a sense of rightness in their kiss. Somehow he _wasn't_ expecting this intensity or this euphoric, desperate hunger.

"Oh god," he gasps into Walt's ear, sliding his tongue along the shell of it as long as he's there. "We are _so_ married. I'm sorry I didn't know."

"S'okay," Walt groans throatily as he tilts his head to give Johnny better access. "I'm feeling really forgiving right now."

And Johnny thinks that's very understanding of Walt, so he shows his gratitude by trailing sucking bites down the column of Walt's neck. When he reaches the curve of collarbone, Walt cries out and jolts sharply in Johnny's arms. Abruptly the world spins, and suddenly the wall is pressing into Johnny's back, and Walt is plastered hard against his front, grinding urgently into him with a growl. Johnny makes a ragged sound deep in his chest, and tries to angle his hips to press his own erection more firmly against Walt's.

And the world dissolves in a flash and a tumbling sense of vertigo.

Thoroughly disoriented, Johnny notices first that he's now on his back on the ground, but he's still clutching Walt. Walt's on top of him, panting for breath against his face, with his arms locked tightly around Johnny. They're still distractingly hard against each other.

The people surrounding them and the bright, swinging beams of halogen light only register when a voice beside them coaxes, "Sheriff? Can you hear me, Sheriff Bannerman? We need you to let go of Mr. Smith now. You've both been injured, and we need to treat you."

Walt pushes himself up a little, and blinks down at Johnny in confusion for a second. Then Johnny sees his eyes widen, and feels him go terribly still for a moment before he rolls hastily away. And memory comes crashing down with horrifying abruptness, until Johnny can't breathe under the weight of it.

*********

Johnny sits glumly on an examining table, reflecting that hospital rooms are always too cold and too bright, not to mention quellingly sterile. He thinks that Sarah and J.J. brought in a little life when they looked in on him earlier, but it's all been leeched away now by the fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. He tries not to think about Walt in the examining room next door.

After awhile, a nurse brings him painkillers for his concussion, and reassures him kindly that Mr. Lewis has been reached and is on his way. She clips his skull x-rays to the backlit display board before she leaves. Just as Johnny is eyeing the pictures of his brain with a certain amount of resentment, the door opens hesitantly on Walt standing uncertainly outside.

Walt visibly girds himself, and steps into the room. "Hey, John," he says in a brittle tone, standing as far away from Johnny as he can get without leaving. His eyes move restlessly around the room.

Johnny offers him a nod which only jerks a little with tension and nervousness. "Hey, Walt."

Walt's hands briefly close into tight fists at his sides before he crosses his arms. His whole posture looks defensive, awkward, and miserable to Johnny, but Johnny's pretty sure his looks about the same way.

"So," Walt forges ahead intrepidly, "I thought you'd want to know what happened." Catching Johnny's suppressed twitch, he hastens to add, "With the bomber. I mean what happened with the bomber."

"Oh! Yeah, of course. The bomber." Johnny nods as vigorously as he can without making his terribly aching head any worse.

"The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. Turns out he was Lawrence Allen, the younger brother of old man Allen who owned the house. Had quite a record for burglary a few years back, but apparently he found religion in prison. Roscoe found a whole stack of journals outlining all his plans out in the shed—I'm pretty sure he wanted those to be found afterwards. Seems it was a trap all along. He must've been planning this for months."

Johnny notes with a sense of mingled relief and unexpected disappointment that Walt's voice firms into a more ordinary tone as he talks about the case. And sure, Walt looks a bit angry, but it's in his someone-was-trying to-hurt-a-friend-of-mine-on-my-watch way that gives Johnny a feeling of comfortably familiar warmth.

"He planted that note just so that I'd bring it to you," Walt continues. "He planned to have you come to his house and get lured in by his stunt with the knife—and seriously, what kind of idiot hinges his plan around getting the drop on a psychic, anyway?—just so that you could," Walt doesn't even need to make air quotes the disgusted disdain is so evident in his voice, "burn like a proper witch on a real pyre. The rest of the journals were full of lots of real nutcase shit about martyrdom and false prophets leading people astray from the path of righteousness."

Johnny huffs in frustration and throws his arms out, bitter memories of his last witch burning hardening his face. "Of _course_ he was another one of those," Johnny grits out past his tightened jaw. He slashes the air with his hands in time to his building rant. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, blah blah...dark Satanic powers, blah blah....congress with the beast, blah—" He chokes to a crashing halt at that, the blood rising in his face, only belatedly realizing that it probably wouldn't have sounded suggestive at all if he'd just brazened through it. He chances a glance at Walt, only to find him staring, wide-eyed. A ponderous silence smothers the room, and neither of them can quite seem to look away for a long moment. Then Johnny unconsciously licks his lips, and Walt's eyes flicker down to his mouth before jerking guiltily aside.

"So, uh," Walt tries, sounding half-strangled. "I don't know about yours, but my concussion's really killing me. We must have slammed into that oak tree pretty hard, huh? Doc says we must've been out for maybe half an hour," he pauses infinitesimally, and continues in a more deliberate tone, "but it's all kinda a blur for me. One minute we were dragging Lawrence Allen away from the house—"

"—and the next we were in an ambulance with a guy poking our skulls and asking us how many fingers he was holding up," Johnny puts in quickly.

Walt snaps his fingers and points at Johnny. "Exactly! Me too."

They nod at each other, and it almost feels normal. A little of the tension drains out of the room, but Johnny's stomach feels leaden anyway.

"Okay then," Walt moves towards the door, "I'll just get out of your hair and go on home to nurse my aching head." He pauses with his hand on the knob and adds softly, "Take care, John." Then he's gone, and the door is swinging closed behind him with a metallic click that echoes in the empty room.

Johnny slides off of the exam table to go and stand in front of the lighted display. His hands twist against each other as he contemplates the image of his own brain, which is disturbingly familiar by now.

"We're doing shared unconscious concussion visions now? With amnesia, yet." Johnny glares vengefully at his brain scan, which glows cheerfully back at him from the display board. "Oh, _very_ funny. If you think that I won't retaliate by drinking some of your little cells into oblivion, you've got another thing coming." He flicks off the back light with a vicious snap. "Yeah, you and the medulla oblongata you rode in on, pal."

By the time Bruce arrives in a bustle of friendly concern and mother-henning to take Johnny home, the plastic scan is lying on the floor in six jaggedly torn pieces, and Johnny is shivering with the cold.


End file.
